


The Case of the Empty Flat

by burglarhobbit (kazosah)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Parentlock, brilliant children save the day... maybe, reapportionment of Baudelaire orphans, violence against a child, violence and death not greatly depicted but just to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazosah/pseuds/burglarhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the children arrive home after school they are welcomed by a strangely empty flat - much more strange, and unsettling, they find a note. But all is not how it appears. Leave it to the Watson-Holmes children to know AND notice, to see AND observe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what I'm doing. I thought of this a week or two back and thought it would've been neat to reapportion the Baudelaire orphans into the Sherlock-verse as Sherlock and John's biological children [not MPREG, for the love of all things science - no, that's not happening here]. I wrote a little bit out and then forgot about it, but then I was perusing the parentlock tag on tumblr and wow, just WOW. So many wonderful gifsets, I was inspired anew.
> 
> I'm hoping this won't drag on for too long. Maybe three or four chapters, at most five. Short chapters.
> 
> Anyway. Hopefully this is moderately entertaining, and once I get to the actual Sherlock and John parts it won't be too OOC. It will be a little, obviously, what with children in the mix, but you catch my drift, I think.

 

* * *

_My dear children,_

_I hope this note finds you well. Unluc **k** ily, the same can not be said for me. You will have noticed my **l** ack of **a** ttention these past weeks; that I have been neither the caregiver to yo **u** nor the husband to your father I u **s** ed to be. That is because I am bored, far too bored, incredibly bored, and I shall be lifted to a much higher place where my boredom will finally fall away and back to the sinners where I always found my cure, my match. Into the bargain, your dad will most likely stumble upon this first and be taken as well, you know how he is. I can only hope your surroundings will offer you comfort, and that in your combined strengths you needn't the assistance of anyone to overcome this, and locate in little time that we love you dearly. Must dash, now._

_All of my love,_

_Your Father_

_and Daddy_

 

* * *

 

The eldest child stared at her brother, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor, arms crossed over her chest, "Well, go on then," she grumbled, her jaw set in a strict way, her words biting out in a harsh way, though her throat constricted with emotion, cracking her words now and then, "Tell us what it **really** says."

 

The middle child glanced to the youngest - who was wide eyed and looking far smaller than she truly was when seated in their father's arm chair - before looking back to his elder sister, note in hand, he ran his eyes over the scribblings again before calmly declaring, "Daddy and Father have been kidnapped."

 

"Oh, for the love of -" the elder huffed and spun on her heel to pace toward the sitting room window, peering past the curtain to glare down at the street, still mumbling under her breath, looking a very female image of their father.

 

"No, Vi, look!" the middle besought, rushing across the room to grab hold of her hand and haul her away from the window, pushing the note into her vision, "Look! Notice the letters that are inked bolder than the rest: K-L-A-U-S. He **wanted** me to read and decipher this!" he shuffled away, then turned sharply back to the window to raise the note to the light, "So far all I've managed is that they've been stolen; he wrote _lifted to a much higher place_ , Father doesn't believe in religion, why would he say that?"

 

"It's a suicide note, Klaus! Maybe he was repenting."

 

"Suicide note?!" the youngest yelped, and clamped her hands to her mouth as her big stormy blue eyes began to well up with tears. The eldest huffed a sigh, glaring at her brother as she plucked little sister from the chair and sat in it herself before settling her on her lap, shushing her soothing words and calm explanations.

 

Klaus continued on, too preoccupied in his study to notice the minor distress to his left, "I don't think so. Because then he very plainly writes _into the bargain your dad will most likely stumble upon this first and be taken as well_." He lowered the note, and glanced far off toward the skull on the mantelpiece, brain working double time in producing possible scenarios before the most likely tumbled from his lips, "Dad came home in the midst of the initial stealing of Father, probably **while** he was being forced to write this." He shook the note in his grasp, fingers curling so tightly that the paper crinkled and his nails bite through. "Whoever planned on taking Father couldn't risk leaving Dad here, not after what he saw..."

 

"Right, and what else has Father hidden in the text?" the eldest asked, her tone very flat, her patience fleeting by the second. She adjusted the now calm youngest from her lap to be seated in the arm chair by herself once again, she stood, and took a few paces toward the fire place, bracing her hand on the mantel, "Jesus... **Jesus** , I can't believe this is happening," she hissed.

 

"Well..." Klaus murmured slowly, prompting both sisters to look to him to continue, "He wants us to _find comfort in our surroundings_. He wants us to examine the crime scene, this is where you come in, Vi. Notice anything?"

 

She gave a weary sigh before turning in her spot, looking around the eerily empty flat, "Daddy's gun is on the desk. Though that's not entirely strange, that's where he always puts it, but he always takes it with him, force of habit."

 

"And? What else?" Klaus nodded, gesturing a hand motion for her to keep going. The youngest slipped from the arm chair, trying her hand at her sister's keen eyed skill, but could see nothing, she slipped the note from her brother's grasp as she passed him at peered at it curiously, trying to notice as he did.

 

"Broken Erlenmeyer flask on the table, shards on the floor - Sunny! Don't step that way!" she sprang away from the fireplace and turned the occupied youngest away from the kitchen.

 

"Focus, Violet!"

 

"Uh!" Violet turned back to the kitchen, noticing now the unusual level of disarray it was in. Her eyes homing in on obvious details she couldn't believe she hadn't immediately noticed upon arriving home to an uncommonly empty flat. "Traces of blood on the glass fragments on the table. Bits of a trail leaving the kitchen, probably stuck in someone's shoe. Those are new - scuff marks in the wood, dug in by shoe heels, signs of a struggle. If the assailant trod on the glass perhaps there's a trace of - of -," she stuttered to find the words, she knew what she was talking about, what she was thinking of, and apparently so did he brother.

 

"Go on," he nodded, keeping a hand on Sunny's shoulder, "Step carefully."

 

Violet did so, walking through the kitchen and to her father's lab kit, picking out his gloves and a pair of tweezers and a Petri dish. She inhaled sharply upon sight of new offered details, "Kettle's been tossed into the sink, bit of blood on it... Can't be sure who - Wait, you said Dad stumbled upon this."

 

" _You know how he is_ ," Klaus quoted.

 

"Dad probably smashed the assailant's face with the kettle, then. We could collect the blood and give it to Uncle Greg-"

 

"No!" Klaus squawked, "No, we can't do that. He's warned us against that," he leaned down to Sunny's level and took a corner of the note to recite, " _I can only hope your surroundings will offer you comfort, and that in your combined strengths you needn't the assistance of anyone to overcome this_. I think he means we can't phone Lestrade or whatever trouble they're in will get exponentially worse."

 

"What about, though I hate to say it, Uncle Myc?"

 

"No! God, no!" Klaus bellowed, "We don't need him sticking his cake covered fingers in our  business."

 

"Auntie Mols, then," Violet suggested, reasoning, "She's not police or government. Or- or Aunt Harry!"

 

"There isn't any time for that, _locate in little time that we love you dearly. Must dash, now_. I think he means to tell us to hurry. There's no telling when this happened, but he counted on us finding this after school."

 

"Klaus..." Violet whispered, stepping carefully again around the glass and blood, gloves adorned, tweezers and dish still in hand, "Are we properly sure this isn't just a farewell note? I mean -,"

 

"You can't believe that," he shook his head, "You can't **honestly** believe that. This is **Father** and **Dad** , our **PARENTS** , you're talking about. In the grand scheme of things, you know very well that they'd never leave us like this, ever. Now, we have been given instructions to save them. Father is far more clever than they come and then some, we are going to heed these instructions, and bring them home."

 

Violet pursed her lips, resisted against letting her watery vision cascade down her cheeks, and gave a firm nod, "I hope you're right."

 

"We'll only know I'm right if we hurry."

 .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we can attribute Sherlock's terrible grammar as another obvious sign that it's not a suicide note, heh heh. God, I can barely articulate in real life, let alone in written word form.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

People have different ways of showing gratitude. Some were more conventional than others, such as praise and gifts. Cash, gift cards, small trinkets and mementos, generally things on the smaller side. But then there were others who might go out a little more, bigger gifts, big announcements of praise and recognition. And then there was this woman. Not _the_ woman, Irene would never have agreed to such a deal, but a woman that would become very significant in the Baker Street Boys' lives.

  
It was in the second winter after Sherlock's return from the grave when John made it clear that he didn't want Sherlock to ever leave him again; and in addition there would never be any secrets between them, just trust and love. It had taken Sherlock a bit of time to grow accustomed to it, this new step in their relationship, but all in all he was grateful to have his John back. Soon enough Sherlock managed to function like a participating partner in a relationship, though he was still very much his inquisitive and logic bound self. He made an effort for John, but not just for John, he found he enjoyed holding John's hand during cab rides home after resolved cases; or when they were on the sofa, Sherlock's head in John's lap while he read, book held open with one hand while the other combed soothing and constant through Sherlock's curls until he found himself dozing and far, far away from conscious thought; or kissing John. Kissing was good, he discovered, once he got the hang of it again - he'd been out of practice for a long while - and John had not seemed adverse to Sherlock's need to exercise the skill.

  
But when a case brought them into acquaintance with a woman - after rescuing her from captors holding her for a ransom that would be impossible to pay - that marked a gargantuan turning point in their relationship and individual lives.

She was a new nurse at the hospital John steadily worked at, one he hadn't known since she worked many floor and John was generally bound to his office - he wouldn't have even known they worked in the same building if it weren't for her recognition of him. More often than not she would pass him in a corridor and offered him a friendly smile while she rushed to her destination, and John was off to lunch. She had been chosen at random by her captors, she had no connection to them whatsoever, which made the understanding and finding of her all the more difficult. But, of course, not too difficult that Sherlock couldn't maneuver her rescue and the assailants' arrests.

Mary Morstan. A petite little blonde woman with a kind heart and perfect sense of humor, proffered her gratitude in the most bizarre of ways. She recognized their partnership, recognized it for what it was romantically, as opposed to how the rest of the world saw it as a partnership between two friends, platonic, or even brotherly. She saw the love in their eyes when one looked at the other, she saw that that was something that would last forever, so when she offered she knew it wouldn't be a mistake. She offered to be their surrogate.

  
John was stunned, Sherlock seemed the same, but he'd kept his expression vacant, whereas John had his mouth agape for a few long moments before finally stuttering a polite thanks, but declination. Sherlock hadn't uttered a word, hadn't even grunted a noise of agreement, just surprisingly nodded in understanding when Mary said the offer would always be open.

  
Sherlock hadn't spoken a word of it, but the thought lingered heavily in his mind. He recalled accounts of John ever mentioning children in his future, he replayed the encounter with Mary again and again, visualized every detail of John's reaction - was it the strange offer that put him off, or the idea of a child, an infant, that put him off? Two months in total passed before Sherlock awkwardly cleared his throat one evening after John's arrival home. John was making dinner, hardly paying attention, body and mind utterly exhausted, but picked up on Sherlock's words now and again, but especially the combination of words that explained the benefits of having children of their own.

  
The doctor had nearly sent their dinner flying off the stove and across the room when he spun around to look at Sherlock, the detective stationed cautiously against the door way of the kitchen, fingers twiddling in front of him, held a bashful yet oddly hopeful look in his cerulean eyes.

  
John didn't need convincing to agree to it, he just needed a couple days to rein in his excitement. He couldn't help bombarding Sherlock with questions of if he was really sure, if this is really what he wanted. And Sherlock, ever the machine, would reply, "Yes, John! Yes, I'm sure! I want a crying, sniveling, helpless product of yours or my genes filling up the vacant space in this flat! I want this damned hovel to feel like a home, and what better way to do that than to introduce an infant!" But then other times he would answer with less bite, "They will be sharp, John. Gifted! With both of us raising them, god! The possibilities are endless." And then the one response that had John scolding him sharply, "No! Sherlock! You will not perform experiments on our child! I shouldn't have to tell you that!"

  
It was after all that, after John had been assured that Sherlock wouldn't back out of this (or use their child as a guinea pig) that he caught Mary in the hospital canteen. And before he could utter a word, apparently from just the look of him alone, Mary grinned, "I'll arrange a consultation."

  
The process was arduous, but through it they all three remained strong. The men had even made an appointment for a marriage license after the details of Mary's surrogacy were settled. And then all too suddenly... John and Sherlock were fathers of a child.

  
Violet Maura Watson-Holmes.

  
"Brilliant," Sherlock had murmured upon first sight of her in her hospital bassinet. John shot him a grin, eyes watery and blurry as the nurse arranged the snoozing newborn into a bundle of light purple blanket. She came forward, expertly holding the babe, smirking down at the pale, peaceful visage and tuft of dark hair that was atop her head. The nurse glanced between Sherlock and John, a silent question of who to pass the girl off to; John glanced to his husband, brushing a tear away from beneath his eye, "Sherlock?" The taller man snapped his gaze to John, eyes wide with a just amount of fear, but also an insurmountable happiness John had never seen outside of a crime scene. "Would you like to hold our daughter?"

  
Sherlock could only manage a shaky nod, throat bobbing as he swallowed down his nerves (and a minute glare when the nurse chuckled at him lightly). John was close by, muttering careful, carefully, as the woman deposited the baby into Sherlock's unpracticed arms. But he didn't harbour any worry once Violet was in his husband's sure cradle, the look in his eyes as he took in every little detail Violet unknowingly offered; Sherlock was always intent on the object, whatever it may be, that captured his scrutiny, but this was different, this look was awed, and then something like determination blazed in his eyes - and John forever recognized that as the moment Sherlock's fatherly protectiveness was kindled for their child.

  
As a baby Violet tested her parents' patience daily (but even dead of the night feedings and changings and tantrums didn't deter them from the idea of introducing another into their home). As a toddler she was quite the little princess (which would be attributed to Sherlock's parenting, as well as Mycroft's doting). She would abuse her cute pout and wide blue eyes to render victims hypnotized to do her bidding and meet her needs and wants. As she aged became more aware of her looks and the way she could utilize people - London - nay - _the world_ didn't stand a chance.

  
She was an equal balance of Sherlock and John (though she had come strictly from Sherlock's loins); she had a passion for chemistry, but a fondness for military like organization and promptness; and perhaps more understanding of firearms than a girl near the age of seventeen should know ("It's good knowledge to have," John defended to the relatives who tutted the idea. For all Sherlock treated her like a princess, John treated her like a queen who would also act as general of her army.)

  
Violet was almost two when Klaus Hamish Watson-Holmes was born. He gave his sister a run for her money as an unruly infant, and Sherlock had joked (at least John believed and hoped it to be a joke) that they should try to get Klaus to become a girl, since Violet seemed much more accommodating in comparison. Klaus was undoubtedly of Holmes blood, much like his sister he had a plumage of dark curls and eyes such a clear blue, there was no question from whom he had inherited them. With each passing year he grew more into an exact physical copy of Sherlock (so claimed, Mycroft - along with photographic evidence salvaged from the Holmes Estate), though thankfully he didn't harbour the seemingly hereditary attitude that came with the Holmes name as well.

  
He was quite keen on books, with John reading him fantasy stories, and Sherlock reading from science and history texts, it wasn't any wonder as soon as the boy could read on his own that he wasn't seen with a novel or tome on his person. Any and all kinds of works, he loved a good read, and could catalogue every useful and useless factoid into his mind for future reference (Sherlock's teaching of how to create and maintain a mind palace hadn't gone amiss. Though Klaus likened his housing of memory to a mansion - there was some humility in the Holmes's lineage yet.)

  
He had a habit of spouting off facts, regardless of where they were, what it was about, and whose company they were in - but could withhold information with such great practiced concealment, even without speaking a word, much to Sherlock's dismay. And it was with said skill that he kept the knowledge that he was meeting Lestrade's daughter three times a week for maths tutoring - only two of those days spent actually engaging the troublesome subject.

  
And finally, it took seven years until they realized they were missing their finishing piece. Saffron Jean Watson-Holmes, better known as Sunny. The name Saffron was half part spur of the moment-in effort to keep up with the trend naming girls after plant names, and half part unknowingly perfect in choice. Her hair had been sparse, but a bright sort of orange-ish blonde akin to the crocus thread; "It reminds me," Sherlock said, "of sunshine." And so became her nickname. Though it wasn't only her hair that deemed her sunny, it was also her disposition, her personality, and her toothy grin. She was from John, and it was plain to see with all they shared in physical attributes, as well as heart. Her strongest skills and favoured preferences had yet to display themselves - but as an infant and toddler she had taken a fondness to biting. Tasting only came second best, but went hand in hand with chomping on anything she so desired (much to Sherlock's amusement, Anderson had been a frequent sufferer to his youngest daughter's feral inquiring champ). In truth, she was the sweetest of the bunch; where Violet and Klaus tended toward an attitude of indifference much like Sherlock still presented, she was quite empathetic.

  
Make no mistake, although the Holmes influenced a more lethargic demeanor, their love was the most deep and resolute, boundless.

  
[They even held considerate affection toward Mary - because Sherlock and John could not deny them the existence of the woman who had carried them; but especially not when Violet and Klaus approached them after primary school let out one day and Violet so blatantly stated, "It's a simple equation. A man plus a woman, create a life. Double X chromosomes and XY chromosomes. Neither of you contain a womb for the gestation-" and that is where John had halted any more from her. Though glad he was of her thirst for and comprehending of knowledge, he was slightly horrified to hear those words come from his eight years old mouth. They explained that there was a woman who volunteered to act as their womb for gestation - as Violet had said - and that if they would like to, they could meet her. And they did. And they did not see her as their mother, nor did she see them as her children, but there was a connection there, a bond. She was smart and kind woman, a good friend; in actuality she ranked closely with Auntie Mols, but above Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara.]

  
So it was in this act of theft against them they remained cool headed, but their anger was infinite. Their efforts to reclaim Sherlock and John would be inexhaustible, and whoever it was that chose to steal their parents from them probably didn't realise that they'd in fact made the worst choice in all their life.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, take a gander at Watson-Holmes spawn (open in new links): [Violet](https://24.media.tumblr.com/5eb3c69edf2d2931ab3f67896aa1e48e/tumblr_my5bq3sdyq1r00ixgo1_400.jpg), [Klaus](https://31.media.tumblr.com/522474deb90bfbb0d40fcec1ca94faf0/tumblr_my5bq3sdyq1r00ixgo2_r1_500.jpg), [Sunny](https://24.media.tumblr.com/12bf9599b7fbd27e15eae8024c85ceec/tumblr_my5bq3sdyq1r00ixgo3_250.jpg)


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

"This task would be impossible if it were left to anyone else."

  
"You mean left to the Met."

  
Klaus and Violet moved nimbly through the sitting room and kitchen; Violet crouched low to the floor to pluck a sample of dirt and grime and whatever else collected in a deeper groove a scuff mark had left, she knew that Father had done this once in a case before, one far back, and surely she could mimic his genius. From the floor she swept herself up and stepped quickily but carefully to settle herself at the kitchen table and set herself to work with separating, studying and labeling minerals and elements and ultimately finding there original place of congregation.

  
"That's your girlfriend's dad you're talking about," she chuckled, though solely intent on the tubes and chemicals she handled.

  
Klaus paced back and forth through the doorway between the sitting room and the hall steps that led down to the vacant 221A and front door below and the steps that led up to their rooms, note now clutched in both his hands as he stared so fiercely he could've burned a hole through it.

  
"Yes, and...?" he mumbled, "Doesn't mean I have to like the man, and especially not the officers he supervises - he's not even our real uncle, though I do prefer him to Mycroft."

  
Violet chuckled again as she settled her first slide down and peered through the scope, adjusting the focus.

  
Sunny stood in the middle, near John's arm chair, looking back and forth between her older siblings, picking at the blue polish on her nails (the polish she'd had Daddy help her apply); she felt terribly useless, just stood there while her brother and sister worked hard while she was just working herself up with fear and anxiety. "What should I do?" she asked, desperate for a task.

  
Klaus halted in his pacing and glanced throughout the flat, his brow scrunching for a moment before he stepped out of the doorway, "Why don't you have a look around for Gandalf and Lady Mary."

  
It was simple enough. Enough to busy her. She nodded to her brother, and looked to her sister whose eyes were still intent on the scope. Sunny wrung her hands as she stepped through the doorway and into the hall, taking the steps slowly. She glided one hand along the rail and the other against the wall, taking her time to count each step she took. Seventeen, she knew there was seventeen, she'd known since she was three years old, but there was something calming in counting them again, producing that number she knew it would, something she could rely on, something that was real.

  
Daddy and Father were taken, by some bad people, that much she knew. She wasn't sure about hidden messages in notes, or identifying elements, but finding them again, and saving them, that's what they had to do.

  
It was quite a strange Tuesday afternoon.

  
221A remained vacant for the past three years, though Sunny could not recall the kind old land lady Mrs. Hudson as well as her parents and siblings did, she did feel a strange sort of pang in her gut at the sight of the shut and locked door. She felt like she should expect the old woman to stroll from her quarters, greet her warmly and herd her into her sitting room for biscuits and tea, but no one came. But it was more often than not that the cats would roam around the scant space of the ground floor, only taking warm refuge at the head of her bed, amongst her pillows, at night.

  
She found herself wondering if Mrs. Hudson would've let the cats wander into her flat, if she'd indulge them and lay out a saucer of cream for them, or if she was allergic. As far as she knew Mrs. Hudson had only moved away to the country, having quite enough of the city and the constant adventures of her upstairs tenants, desperately in need to settle down. After they retrieved Father and Daddy she'd ask if they could pay her a visit.

  
Optimism was a trait she'd taken from her Father. There's was always hope, there was always some way.

  
She reached the ground floor, seventeen steps. Now to locate Gandalf and Lady Mary.

  
The pets of 221B followed the trend of being named after whatever fictional obsession currently plagued Violet at their time of arrival. Smeagol had been an English bulldog who came along with Gandalf a grey kitten. Smeagol seemed rightly named so, the way the dog would wheeze and pant similarly to the cave dwelling creature; he and Gandalf were gifted to Violet on her third birthday, and having repeatedly watched the two Peter Jackson adapted Tolkien trilogy's (The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit) Violet could think of no better names for the puppy and kitten than her favourite wizard and ring bearer. But Smeagol had passed two years before Sunny was born, their loyal and fierce protector, truly never to be replaced again. Gandalf gained a steady companion again on Sunny's first birthday, a calico kitten that Violet helpfully deemed Lady Mary Grantham.  
[[There were goldfish, hamsters and rats that had come and gone as well; Daly (a companionable name shortened from Dalek for a particularly rueful and special case beta fish), Captain Harkness and Captain Kirk, Uhura and Martha Jones, and the two that had lasted the longest Shaun and Ed.]]

  
Sunny murmured the cats names, though cats (especially theirs) rarely came when called, as she stepped about the ground floor. She hoped they hadn't been let out in during the taking of -

  
No. She shook her head, strengthened her resolve and stepped surely as she cooed for the cats again. They rarely came when called, but Gandalf had a tendency to answer when called. The old grey cat purred and let out a mew and Sunny followed the sound. Along with more meowing she heard scratching, claws against wood. She wretched the hall closet open and released the felines, both of them surging out then moving back to rub against her tights clad ankles appreciatively.

  
Why on Earth would the bad men go so far as to lock the cats in a closet, she could not fathom it, she just hauled up Lady Mary into her arms and pet under her chin. Her task was finished, and the anxiety built up again. What were they going to do? It was already half five; when had Father and Daddy been taken? What if they were too late? What if they never found them? What if -

  
Her thoughts halted upon sight of the hall runner leading to the front door - the far end closest to her feet, closest to the stairs, had a corner flipped up. It was odd enough to be noteworthy only because hardly anyone walked down that hall to get to that closet full of ancient cleaning supplies no one had bothered to toss out, and an old tool box filled with instruments that were outdated. She stepped along, wondering if she had done it as she walked over to rescue her pets. No, surely she would've felt the shift. Gandalf trotted along before her, slinking around the first step and situating himself on the second to peer at her curiously. She toed the carpet back and gasped, dropping to a crouch and releasing Lady Mary as she collected what had laid concealed under that flipped corner.

  
It was Father's mobile.

  
She clutched the phone in her hands, still crouched low, as she thought of what she could do. Her immediate idea was to call, but she halted her thumbs from tapping the keypad and doing so. Her glance was drawn up toward the ceiling when she heard a triumphant, "Aha!" from Violet. Yes, like Violet. And Klaus. She should think like they did. Like Father did. To call Daddy's phone could bring upon imminent danger, or it could provide the location of where the phone was in the flat, if it was in the flat. But it could be on Daddy's person. To call, even if he'd always forget to turn the sound of his ringer back on after work, could, again, give away the location of his phone through long repetitive groaning vibrations in his jacket pocket. And with that, their captors could take the phone and smash it to bits, any hope of gaining contact thwarted.

  
"But," Sunny murmured to herself, and continuing on in her thoughts: A text wouldn't be nearly as catastrophic. Just a slight buzz, and if he could gain access to his phone he could reply their whereabouts, if he knew where they were. It was worth a shot!

  
And again, the very worst case of scenarios would be that John didn't have his phone on him... But why then would Sherlock's phone be left in the hall like that. Surely he had planted it there, or at the very least it was a crazy happenstance that would aid them greatly in their case.

  
She decided, with a nod to herself, that she would send a text, just a simple text; ' _Daddy_?'

  
She waited with bated breath, still crouched low, with both Gandalf and Lady Mary circling around her, nudging a head against her knee now and then, as if trying to soothe her nerves in the smallest way they could as she awaited a result. She kept reminding herself, worst case scenario, he wouldn't have his phone, it was still in the flat, she wouldn't bring them closer to danger or death. Her lungs felt a little smaller at the idea - death - she clutched the mobile and it creaked in her hold.

  
What if they couldn't save them? What if they were gone forever? She hadn't even see Father this morning before school, she'd just caught a glimpse of Daddy before he hurried out the door just as they were waking up to get ready for school. What if she couldn't remember what they looked like? What would happen to her, and Klaus and Violet? Who would take care of them? Where would they go if their parents were kill-

  
The phone vibrated aggressively along with a loud jingle, and it startled her so badly she tilted back on her heels and fell back onto her rear. Both cats scurried closer to her, like they were just as excited to see the answer as she scrambled to view the screen. A smile burst across her mouth at the reply from Daddy's phone, a reply from Sherlock saying, ' _Darling girl_ '.

.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

The tiny blonde rushed up the steps and back into 221B, "I've got it! I've got it! I've got it!" she crowed happily. But both her siblings were still focused on their own tasks. Klaus was muttering under his breath, one hand holding his chin aloft while the other held the note a foot away from his face. Violet had a series of tubes with different coloured frizzling liquids inside, taking a dropper to one that was a more florescent green, and putting it on a slide, peering through the scope and feverishly scribbling down notes.

  
"I have it! Look!" the youngest called again, brandishing the mobile. But they shushed her.

  
"Quiet! We need to concentrate now! Vi's nearly got what we need to get an idea of a location. And it's just this damned part, this line where he writes: _back to the sinners where I always found my cure, my match_. What the bloody hell could that mean? I mean, obviously it's a hint as to who has taken them, but..." he trailed off, taking to muttering incoherently as a pinch between his brows formed.

  
"But I know!" Sunny wailed, her happy demeanor lessening as the seconds ticked on, "I know where they are!"

  
"How could you possibly know?" Violet murmured, eyes still fixed on the scope while her hand wrote off notes without seeing.

  
"Here!" she stomped to Klaus and took the note from his hand and replaced it with Sherlock's mobile, "Father's phone." Then Violet and Klaus's attention finally drew to her, then they were finally listening. "I found it downstairs, under the carpet. I think Father meant to hide it there, meant for me to find it. And I sent a text to Daddy's phone, and he's answered. I keep texting, the answers are slow, but they come. Father's said something about an old house by abandoned docks, said that Vi would know-"

  
"That's where I went to my first crime scene, Klaus you were there, too. Daddy was furious about having a case throwing itself into their laps. I had gone with Father, collecting scene samples, evidence, following suspects... It was a terrifying case..." Violet supplied, a distant look to her eyes as she recalled it years ago. She looked down to her notes, at the tubes, "That's why these look so familiar..."

  
She looked back to her brother and sister, her palms slammed against the table top and startled them both as she stood up and rushed from the kitchen and pulled her coat from the rack, "Come on, I know where to go."

  
"What! What are we going to do when we get there?!" Klaus squawked, his voice going muffled when Violet tossed his coat to him and it covered his face. "Violet!" he urged when he resurfaced.

  
"We'll play it by ear. We've got to go, now!" she urged back and swirled through the room, yanking Klaus by his arm to rise from John's chair as she swept to the fire place to take the switch blade embedded in the mantel piece and took John's gun from the table, stowing them both in the deep pockets of her coat. "Come on, come on! The next train will leave in 14 minutes!" she made shooing motions toward the younger ones and they scrambled through the door way, spilling down the steps and onto Baker Street.

  
London's sky was growing dark with the oncoming night as well as with dark grey clouds threatening rain. Violet stepped off the kerb, placing her thumb and forefinger between her lips she let out a piercing whistle, followed by a shout of, "TAXI!"

 

 

  
.

  
They were 30 minutes well into their journey and the anxiety and adrenaline had yet to wear off. Sunny was picking at the nail polish on her nails, Klaus was chewing at his own nails, and Violet was focused on the darkening scenery outside, knee jiggling, as her eyes took in every little sight they passed at high speed.

  
"Cornwall," Klaus finally muttered, spitting out a bit of nail.

  
"Yes," Violet answered without glancing away from the window, though the more the day darkened the less she could see outside and the more she only saw her anxiety ridden reflection, as well as the worry written on her brother and sister's faces.

  
"You think they were taken to Cornwall."

  
"I don't think," she answered sharply, "I know. It makes sense."

  
"How does it make sense?! Illuminate us, oh wise one!" the boy's concern and confusion got the best of him, and Sunny glanced around at the other passengers, dark blue eyes widened and apologetic.

  
Violet reached across the table and smacked Klaus's hand from his mouth, "Keep your voice down!" He made an attempt to talk back but she quickly began her retelling with what little information she could recall of the case, "It was so long ago. It was a case Dad didn't publish to the blog, they've never even talked about it after the fact either, I don't think... We'd originally packed up and headed to the coast to give your lungs a break from smoggy, London treatment. Doctor's orders to get you breathing normally again."

  
"I don't remember that."

  
"Of course you wouldn't, you were two years old," Violet, to her credit, managed to refrain from rolling her eyes.

  
"So you were four when this happened. So your memory probably isn't serving us well and we're on this four hour damned train journey to a place where Dad and Father most likely **aren't** , for **_nothing_**."

  
The elder closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, keeping that breath in before exhaling out her young sibling's name in contempt, "Klaus," she grit out the rest, "It makes sense. Just shut it and let me explain." Her eyes snapped open and she leveled him with a glare, painless though it proved to be, it was the act of it that made her feel better. He made a sweeping motion with his hand for her to continue, and so she did, choosing to glance between the table top between them and Sunny rather than her infuriating little brother. "Father wrote about sinners. I think that's possibly in reference to this old case. There was a root. It was called... oh damn! What was it called?" Her fingers tapped away at the table top and she chewed on her lip in thought, but she was never really good with that mind palace thing. Her middle finger and thumb produced a snap, "It was a hallucinogen. Some hippy scientist spent some time with desert plain tribes in Africa and brought it back to England. When this root was burned, it produced a smoke that when inhaled would cause one to think they were in the presence of the devil himself. One would feel and look struck by hysterical horror - you'd go mad or you'd succumb to a heart attack and die from fear... Hang on, that's it. _The Devil's Smoke_ , they called it. The fragile root. So fragile that it usually crumbled and puffed into dust if not handled with enough care. They usually compacted it into- into sort of rod like shapes, like incense sticks. Then burned them like that, to get a high and reach spiritual levels with their gods... Such wasn't the case at the time, in Cornwall, obviously, but... It was far more potent when left in its original form that fittingly enough resembled spiraling horns usually pictured on the Devil."

  
"This all happened in Cornwall..."

  
"Yes. In our tiny house on the bay. I looked after you while Father and Dad nearly lost their minds when testing the powder collected from the second crime scene. And that bloody hippy showed up just in time for all the pieces to fit together. It's always money or a love affair, never anything interesting... We had to air the house out for a week, stayed in the vicarage, which must have been interesting for the vicar, housing two men and their small children," Violet chuckled.

  
"So you think 'sinners' is in reference to the Devil's Smoke," Klaus summed for certainty.

  
"Could be," she shrugged, "I'm mostly going off of what Sun said he texted about abandoned docks by the old house, there's nowhere else he could possibly mean when saying that."

  
A quiet hung around the three for a long while until Sunny spoke up, "You don't suppose whoever's got them might use the Devil's Smoke on them, do you?"

  
Klaus and Violet exchanged a glance - priority was finding Dad and Father, but primarily and usually, keeping Sunny calm was top priority, as she had a tendency toward panic attacks. She was doing quite well now that they'd realised how far they'd come and she hadn't even lost her breath. "Hadn't given it the thought," Violet finally answered, "That hippy scientist, Doctor... Sterndale, I think it was; bloody loon had it all, and even then it wasn't that much. He'd have most likely taken it back with him to Africa."

  
The youngest accepted that answer and removed herself from her seat one away from Klaus to sit beside her sister, and huddle up close to her, leaning her head against her side when Violet raised her arm to accommodate.

  
Another hour passed, and it was Klaus who broke the silence, "D'you suppose school will oblige us some time off if this case goes on for a couple of days?"

  
"The press will have a field day with it, that's what we'll have to worry about, school's the least of our troubles," Violet mumbled, lazily combing her fingers through Sunny's hair, she glanced away from the darkness outside the window to her brother, smirking, "You'll be a hit with the ladies. Katherine Lestrade will have a time beating the hopefuls off with a stick."

  
The boy snorted, "If only _I_ were the Watson-Holmes that drew girls toward them with unrivaled powers of magnetism."

  
Violet glanced upward toward the ceiling, with no small degree of arrogance in her casual shrug, she boasted with nonchalance, "The girls want what they want, it's hardly my fault that they gravitate toward me. But it is a trick of _dexterous digits_ that keeps them coming back even after my disastrous personality has put them off."

  
She startled hard when Sunny's sleep-ridden voice wondered, "What does _that_ mean?"

  
She started snickering, and continued to even after Klaus let out a chastising hiss of, "Violet!"

  
"Sorry," she laughed into her hand, waving off his horrified look. She cleared her throat a minute later, laughter seemingly cleared from her system, "Katherine's lovely," she murmured, dissolving into another peel of giggles toward the end of her words when Klaus again directed a look of pure disdain her way. "I'm kidding! We need a little laugh in all of this! Don't we? If only for a moment."

  
When they arrived in Cornwall they had a renewed sense of fear about them, but luckily all that fear did was fuel them with unbridled energy to locate and recover their parents. With pulses racing, hearts in their throats, and stomachs tight and high in their chests, Klaus bade the cabbie to drive faster while Violet overwhelmed him with direction. They were practically sprinting out of the cab, tossing cash at the driver through the window as they followed Violet's lead up the sandy pathway.

  
There was the house, there were... no docks, they must have been cleared away, but the house was still there, and even the key was still beneath the third stone next to the potted roses that used to be there in the garden box. With the key fit into the lock and the door swung open, it was Sunny who pushed forward, immediately calling out loudly, "Father! Father! Daddy!" she rushed through the home with no sure direction, paying no mind to her siblings who plead for her be careful and quiet. "Daddy?!"

  
But it seemed like there was no reason for it. Because the place was just as barren as the old docks that used to sit by and creak eerily through the night. There was no one here, there was no sign that anyone had been there for the past thirteen years.

  
"They're not here," Violet murmured, "How could..." she trailed off in a hollow voice, then rushed through the house and out the back door, looking all around her, and breathing harshly through her nose before kicking at the sand, biting out a series out curses, most in English. "How could they not be here?!"

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References have been borrowed from His Last Bow: The Devil's Foot.
> 
> And yes, you read those implications correctly, nudge, nudge, wink wink.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

Undoubtedly, Violet was the strongest of her three siblings, she thought she had to be, as the eldest. She kept her temper in check with them, always encouraged them when they felt confused, sad, angry, ever prepared to aid them if they felt wronged in anyway; that was her major, solid, unwavering role, as the one they could always count on. But now, she was crumbling to the ground, looking out to the bay that wrecked more boats than it delivered refuge. In a dark humour it seemed an appropriate place for her to lose faith completely, to submit and admit defeat. "I'm sorry," she murmured, and when she looked to her siblings, still standing behind her, her eyes were shimmering with tears. The first stream fell from her right eye, then the left. "I'm so sorry."

  
"No," Klaus stated firmly, and began to pace through the sand and pebbles, "No, that can't be it. It can't be!"

  
While Klaus grumbled and shuffled along back and forth toward the bay water then back toward the house, and Violet cried silently, with trembling shoulders, and her face buried in her arms, Sunny produced Sherlock's mobile from her pocket and tapped to the last text received.

  
"The old house by the abandoned docks," she mumbled the text she read, "'Just a little walk, John.'" She sighed sadly, tapping out of the messages and to the home screen where she found five faces staring back at her. A haphazardly created family portrait. The timer options were either two or five seconds, neither of which were ample time to click the button and scramble to pose attractively and appropriately. So Sherlock and Klaus were in mid fall, a book slipping from Klaus's fingers, having been smacked from his hands by his father, telling him to look up and pay attention for a moment, then somehow both managed to be thrown off balance, in the background Violet was holding the mantel piece skull in one hand and Gandalf in the other, doing a good job of looking stoic and regal, though the left corner of her mouth was betraying her aloof whim, quirking upward and displaying her amusement. John and Sunny were just barely seen, and though Sunny was upside down, held aloft by her ankles by her dad, both she and John had the most perfect, brightest matching grins on their faces. It was one of the most ridiculous photos of all time, taken last year before Christmas... They would never have that again.

  
Sunny was prepared to sit beside her sister and let the emotional flood gates burst, but then Violet's head snapped up, "What," she sniffled and swung her gaze to her little sister, who jumped at the swiftness of the motion, the nearly crazed look in her red, watery eyes, "Say that again."

  
"What?"

  
"You said, 'The old house by the abandoned docks', then what did you say."

  
"'Just a little walk, John.'" Sunny offered slowly, questioningly, unsure of what madness was now taking her sister hostage.

  
"Just a little walk," Violet repeated, and repeated again and again as she stood and dusted herself off. She walked determinedly through the dark house and back to the front stoop. The large tree in the yard was still standing tall and climbable, she'd loved climbing that tree while they lived there, and beneath it was a little bench seat where John would sit and constantly tell her to be careful. The table with the large umbrella, and the set of chairs were gone, perhaps in the shed. The roses were dead, the potted plants were - she dove her hand into the ancient, dry, lifeless dirt, nothing there but - the pot's base, there they were! The stones. "Just a little walk," she chuckled under her breath.

  
She spun on her heel and found both her brother and sister had followed her, and were staring at her with complete confusion written on their features. "We need to go to the vicarage," she announced, wiping away any trace of her tears shed in failure, "It's just a little walk, but it'd do us well to run. Come on! Not a moment to lose!"

.

  
"You're getting all this from gravel beside a potted plant?" Klaus, though glad his sister had made a full recovery from sorrowful defeat, could never understand her methods, and it was usually those times when he sympathized with their dad; all Sherlock and John's old cases - the ones he read before his and his sibling's time - when Sherlock would make deductions from the smallest and most ridiculous of clues.

  
"Not only the gravel, in the text: 'Just a little walk'. That's what he told Dad before he took me to survey potential murderers in town. If only Dad had written this one down, _you'd_ be educating me of the case's facts! It was the hippie, the one with the drug, the root, the Devil's Smoke. We followed the hippie scientist - who'd paid us an abrupt visit earlier, asking intimate details of the case -- which we hadn't gotten anywhere with - all the way to his home he barely lived in, then to the vicarage where the man with the dead sister and mad brothers lived. He'd gathered a handful of rocks from his home's stoop before he walked to the vicarage, tossing the rocks at a window to speak to the man who would soon join his sister in this puzzling, horrifying death."

  
"You're getting melodramatic, Vi. You're being just like Father. Just tell us how you've made it to this bloody conclusion!"

  
"I'm getting there! Another death by mysterious means?! No! Another **murder** committed!"

  
"Violet!"

  
"Just before the sun rose, but from our vantage point it was only speculation. Though we would have the evidence given to us by our eyes we needed this man to confess. We gathered the stones from beneath the window and went home, waiting for word from anyone about a new jigsaw piece to the mystery. Confirmed death, visit the body, gather evidence. Then Father nearly killed himself and Dad with that Devil's Smoke. He'd ushered us outside, and said it was simply an experiment, and they would be done in a few minutes or so. They came scrambling out like they were being chased, Dad dragging Father, three minutes later. Crumbled bodies on the lawn, sputtering and coughing, eyes watering and blinking past fading hallucinations. And that hippie scientist was just walking down the lane. Just in time for me - clever then just as I am now - to start the bold accusations that would lead to his confession. But apparently leading in with, 'You're a bloody murderer!' even in such a sweet child's voice as mine, wasn't the correct way. Though Father got a kick out of it, clapping a hand over my mouth while he continued and eventually did get the confession and whole story," she laughed, "We'll check the vicarage first, then the hippie's house, since it's another three miles down the lane."

  
"Another three miles, Violet!" Klaus whined through heaving breaths.

  
"You complain a lot about physical exertion for a skinny fellow."

  
"This has nothing to do with weight!"

  
"Sunny's doing just fine! D'your adrenaline give out on you already? Come on, Klaus! The game is afoot!"

  
"He says, 'The game is on!'"

  
"Whatever! The game's almost over anyway!"

 

  
.

  
The game was nearly over, yes, but as they approached the deserted remains of the church and vicarage, settled on opposing sides of the road, there was no question this would be the set for the final scene, this would be the biggest and toughest obstacle in their case.

  
"Six months abandoned, planned for renovations but eventually decided on an entirely new building on a new plot of land a few miles away. This whole place is a ghost town, it's no wonder this would be the chosen spot. No residents, no witnesses," Violet murmured as they slowed their pace, approaching the church under cover of night's dark shadow.

  
The eldest felt a tap on her arm, and glanced to the touch to see two fingers pointed in the direction of the vicarage, all the windows boarded up, save for one. It wouldn't have been all that much to note had a line of red not strung from the window perch across the lane through the church's large shattered stained glass window. Sunny had caught it, her young eyes much keener, a scarlet thread flickering in and out of sight; she'd tugged on her brother's sleeve, and he passed the message on.

  
"Right," Violet whispered, forcing herself, and hoping her siblings did the same, not to notice the quiver in her voice. For a few silent moments she just chewed on her bottom lip, the cogs and wheels visibly working in her brain until she spun to her kin, "Alright, listen. Take this," she shuffled around in her coat pockets and produced the switch blade, she grabbed Klaus's hand and smashed the closed blade into his palm, "Make your way into the church, carefully, quietly-,"

  
"What! Vi!" Klaus hissed.

  
"Please," she begged, reaching out and gripping his shoulders, "Just do this. Be careful and quiet, look for them, but don't reveal yourselves, alright? I'll be with you soon."

  
"Violet, what are you going to do?" Sunny asked, her voice just barely audible, her trembling causing her hushed words to fall in and out of sound; quiet, quick wheezing gasps, the tell-tale sign of a stirring panic.

 

The older girl fell to her knees and took her young sister in a similar pose as she had her brother, thin shoulders clasped gently, but surely in hand, "Stay calm, Sun. You've been doing so well. Just count, I know we're not at home, but you can count the steps in your head, can't you? 17 steps. Your safe number. 17. Calm down, breathe, count. Soon we'll have them back, soon we'll be home, and you can count the steps yourself with Daddy and Father, right?"

  
Sunny nodded, mentally already up to three steps, and back in control of her lungs, "Right."

  
"Good," Violet nodded with a small grin and then she was sprinting along the shadows, as silent as the wind. They watched her run alongside the vicarage's long wall until they could no longer see her. Hand in hand, stepping lightly with care, Sunny and Klaus discovered a side exit with a decrepit lock, and made their way into the church.

 

.

  
Surrounded in an uncomfortable darkness, they felt swallowed up by the plot of a horror thriller film, though it wasn't at all a fiction, it was all too real with their fathers lives hanging in the balance. Unless they were already too late. Sunny's small nails bit into Klaus's palm as he guided them through the dark, stepping which direction he couldn't be sure, it was as if his eyes were closed though they were very much wide open and struggling to adjust.

  
"I'm scared." For moment he'd thought it was his own mind speaking aloud, only realising seconds later that it was his sister's whisper in the stale air.

  
Turning and patting his hands carefully, he found his hold beneath Sunny's underarms and hauled her up, "Me too," he grunted quietly, and walked on, mindful of his footing, as he was walking for two now and the building was old and in a half-demolished state.

  
There were distant sounds, a repetitive noise and another different noise that followed it, sounding much like a reaction to the first sound. The corridor they walked down seemed to go along the entirety of the church building's length, maybe even encircling the whole church at one point, but as they walked toward the light, broadly speaking, as it was still impossibly dark in the building - the large stained glass window, shattered by stones, allowed in beams of moonlight when the clouds didn't shroud over - they found themselves at the back of the nave. Sunny gasped not only at Klaus sharply stepping back to conceal themselves in the dark of the side corridor, but at the scene altar at the very opposite end from where they were.

  
The muffled sounds they heard were now at full uncondensed volume and echoed through the barren chamber. Sunny clamped both her hands over her mouth to keep her wails contained as a man struck John in the face over and over again. The sound of the punch, fist connecting with flesh and bone, and the after sound, John puffing out a grunt of pain. Both of them were there. Tied and cuffed to kneel with hands behind them, on opposing sides of the stone carved altar table, Sherlock and John looked as if they had dealt with this treatment for the larger part of their kidnapping. Sherlock's face was no worse for wear aside from a bruised and split cheek, but judging by the way his body slumped and curled, he'd taken just as much beating as John was now receiving to his face.

  
The man finally let up, stepping away with a half satisfied half exhausted chuckling sigh, shaking out his knuckles as he walked around the table, nudging Sherlock harshly with his foot as he passed. John spit a collection of fluids that was mostly blood to the floor, very, very closely to the man's shoe as he passed round John again. His step halted just beside the glob of saliva and blood, and in the scant light of church his dark figure visibly stiffened before he cracked his neck to one side and continued to leisurely walk around his captives.

  
"You're probably wondering why I haven't gotten this over with already. Surely taking turns between beating you and watching you be beaten would lose its allure after a while," the man spoke, his tone just the same as his walk, casual, calm, but with a clipped, irate edge, "But I'm not one who gets bored quite so easily. Not like you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Nor like him, my dear... _dead_... brother. And I'm not so changeable either."

  
The clouds chose to part at that moment, the moon unveiled, its pale light illuminating the church through the large broken window, and the man turned, just so he was positioned with the sniper's red dot rested at his sternum, and a grin broke over his formerly grim face.

  
Klaus's breath caught in his throat. He'd read every old blog post, read all the police files he could get his hands on, and listened to first hand accounts that related to him, the devil in Westwood, Jim Moriarty.

  
" _I shall be lifted to a much higher place where my boredom will finally fall away and back to the sinners where I always found my cure, my match_ ," Klaus murmured, "Oh, my god. That's him. That's what he meant by his match. Moriarty."

  
This was Moriarty. This was **_a_** Moriarty; apparently, there were two - twins, in fact. Klaus could recognize every feature that this Moriarty shared with his brother who had committed suicide atop Barts Hospital, which in turn forced his father to fake his own death to protect his loved ones and go on a two year Eurasian wide crime web disassembling stint. The reunion between John and Sherlock had been sketchy at first, but as the present evidence provided, they'd solidified their relationship again.

  
Half of the pews were gone, what remained was a hazardous maze like collection of the piled up broken bench seats, though some were still intact, such as the one the two children crouched low and scurried to remain concealed behind.

  
"He was a bit of an eccentric, my brother, much like yourself, Mr. Holmes. We can say that, right? We can understand that. Boredom tends to rouse about the eccentricity in someone, if they're creative enough. And my brother was very creative, wasn't he?" Moriarty pressed on quickly after his rhetoric musing, "Most of the time I could get where he was coming from. Hell!" he barked, and his sharp laugh echoed harshly in the barren building, "Fifty percent of the time it was me you were talking to when you thought it was him!" He laughed, and dropped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a rough pat, fingers digging in, and going by the way Sherlock tried to pull away from the touch, that shoulder had taken some considerable damage.

  
"My brother and I were quite similar. Not only in dashing appearance," Moriarty walked around the table again, and shot a wink at John as he descended the short steps. Standing before a small pile of pew rubble, hands folded behind his back, dark gaze angled toward the vicarage across the lane, his tone hit a sobering note, "But I love a bit of chaos, myself. A good game, even when I'm already four moves ahead and I know I'm going to win, the game's already finished before your move, I love it. But in truth, it can get boring. You got boring, Mr. Holmes. To my brother, you became boring, but then, as I recall the words so clearly, even as I begged him to stop, stop, stop it, now, Jim, stop! You became his reflection. 'You're me!' he said... and then he died. You killed him."

  
The accusatory tilt to his voice was bone chilling, Klaus felt Sunny's fingers tighten their grip on his hand and jumper. He felt his pulse accelerating, he knew what was coming, and Violet still wasn't with them. What were they supposed to do?

  
Moriarty's twin turned on his heel and trotted up the steps, that more casual, almost playful, sound back in his voice, "And for a time, I was content with that, not happy, but content. I kept quiet as you tore down all he had created, our life's work. I kept quiet and accepted defeat... Until recently I got to thinking... Because boredom calls even to me. It came to mind that his death wasn't a necessary death. He didn't need to die. He was mad, in both good and bad ways, but I could've quelled the bad ways, we could've - he could still be here," his words waned as his throat seemed to constrict with emotion. Moriarty's head dropped, shoulders hunched, he raised a hand to clasp over his eyes. "He was all I had." The whisper could just barely be heard from the back of the church.

  
Then in an instant his crumbled state was gone, shoved away in a burst of exclamation and action of brandishing a gun that caused each person in the church to startle, "And well! A spot of revenge might sate me! He didn't like to get his hands dirty with this stuff, but I figure," Moriarty grabbed a handful of Sherlock's dark curls tinged silver in places along his hairline, the barrel of the gun jammed beneath his jaw, "if killing you doesn't solve my problem, well then, I always have Dr. Watson for back up." Moriarty released Sherlock and waltzed over to John, roughly ruffling a hand through his hair that had gone more grey than sandy blonde, "Lucky you came home when you did, eh, Doctor?" A hysterical laugh ripped through Moriarty's throat as he moved to the front of the table again and - by the familiar sounds Klaus knew from Violet and John cleaning his Sig Sauer - he readied his gun for fire, extended his arm, and five feet away from Sherlock, took his aim, "Enough talk now. Always had the tendency to monologue like a bloody film villain," he chuckled again, "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."

  
Violet still wasn't with them. Sherlock was about to shot point blank and killed, and likely John next. Klaus couldn't just sit there with Sunny and do nothing. For once in his life, he didn't think before acting, he simply acted. He hurriedly pressed the knife into Sunny's hand and told her to stay put while he sprang up and ran through the twisting arrangement of pews, calling out, "And hello Mr. Holmes the younger!"

  
Dear god, this was a terrible idea, he realised, though thankfully very high on adrenaline, as Moriarty, Sherlock and John turned their gazes onto him. He walked slowly, with hands raised, palms bared and stopped a fair meter or so from the altar steps.

  
"Klaus!" John's voice was muddled with swollen flesh and blood, it was Sunny's call of his name that rose higher. And soon she was running up through the wreckage of the church. Klaus caught her by the arm when she made to run past him and to John. He arranged her to stand behind him, though she still poked her head around the side to stare with wide wet eyes to her parents.

  
"Ooh, the kiddies have found you, isn't that adorable?" Moriarty turned full away from his previous position of executioner to look at Klaus and Sunny, "Quite clever, too. Was there a code in the note? Ah, should've figured," he sniffed, unbothered, "Well kids, you're just in time to watch your daddies die!"

  
"No!" Sunny shouted, and surged forward again, making it just to the first step before Klaus caught her again.

  
" **Yes** , little one," Moriarty chuckled gleefully, turning away to level his aim in Sherlock's direction again, but paused, he turned around again, and Klaus took them two steps backward, wary of the madman. "Wait a moment," the man said, tapping the tip of the gun to his chin in thought, "Wasn't there another? An older one. Pretty."

  
"She's in London, rallying up the Yard!" Sunny barked out, and Klaus mentally applauded her quick thinking lie.

  
" _Ooh_!" Moriarty tipped his head toward her, brow raised high in amusement, "The Met, how very promising. Well, you can use your final words to thank her, because she's just sealed all your fates. Say goodnight to daddy!"

  
Stalling! Stall him! They needed to stall him! That's all they could do!

  
"You don't want to do that, I think," Klaus urged, trying to keep the frantic pitch from entering his voice.

  
"Oh I really think I do," Moriarty murmured, his back to them, his arm raised and aim precise. He could've done it, he could have - but even he, contrary to what he'd said, was changeable. He could be distracted, even if it meant only for a few more moments of entertainment.

  
"What would you possibly gain? You kill four people, two of which are quite famous, and then what?" Klaus carefully moved Sunny to stand behind him again, while he took a cautious step forward, onto the first step up to the altar, doing his best of ignoring both his parents' pleading, scared eyes, "You'd only be known as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson's murderer - it won't be your name they'll know, _you_ won't matter, won't be remembered. Just like how your brother isn't remembered."

  
Moriarty's posture stiffened, and past him Klaus could see Sherlock's eyes widened the slightest bit, a look he couldn't quite decipher between pride and warning. Regardless of the look from his father he pressed onward, "It's usually the killer that gets remember, gets the moniker, never the victims remembered, just the psycho who took their lives. But not in this case, who would care to know the name of the name who killed Holmes and Watson - no one."

  
Klaus stepped back as Moriarty, wielding his gun as if it were merely a water pistol rather than one live with real bullets, turned to him, a soft chuckle on his breath before he said, "You see, I know what you're doing. You're stalling for time. But what on Earth for, my dear boy?"

  
"It's what dying men do," he shrugged one shoulder, noticing then that the red pinpoint was now hovering over John's heart, he hadn't seen it because of the blood stained shirt, but now he did, a fell reminder. He swallowed thickly, fighting against the sting of tears in his eyes. Two men, two guns, both could have pulled the trigger the instant he'd shown up, but he had their attention, he had control, he had to keep it. "Last ditch effort and all that, right? Giving you a way out."

  
"Indeed," Moriarty nodded, "Well... Done with that. Best cover little sister's eyes, I think I'll shoot Dr. Watson first, just to see the look of complete and utter grief on Mr. Holmes face, since he seems quite capable of emotions now."

  
"You can't!" Sunny rushed forward, up the steps and beyond Klaus's grasp, she stood before John, the red dot taking its place on her blue dress, right over her heart; she didn't lay a hand on John, simply stood before him, back straight, chin held high, a perfect little soldier.

  
"I can, and I will, darling. Now move, or I shall shoot you first," Moriarty threatened with the gentlest of tones.

  
But this time it was Klaus's protest that sounded loudest above his fathers' voices. Sunny had kept her mouth firmly closed, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, she didn't make a sound or a move.

  
"You could run, boy," Moriarty offered, "You and little sister. You could run now and escape with your lives... But then again, Mr. Moran is notoriously known for never missing his target."

  
Klaus was stuck, he couldn't think of anything else to say. Didn't know what else to do. His little sister was in the line of fire of two guns, his fathers were battered, and he was most definitely not going to run. He glanced between his family and the madman who had them at his will. Give in, give up? What had happened to Violet, was she dead? God, what would have happened if they'd just called the police and Mycroft?

  
There was a minute shift, hard to see from any other's view - and since Klaus was on the second step up to the altar, with Sherlock, John, Sunny and Moriarty looking back at him, they didn't see it. They didn't see the way the little red laser dot moved, disappeared, and then reappeared. Slowly moving away from Sunny's dressfront, and to the knot of Moriarty's tie. A quiet breath of a laugh left Klaus's throat, and he fought hard not to turn around and see that Violet was now the gunman in the vicarage across the street.

  
He moistened his lips with a quick dart of his tongue and stood a little straighter, clearing his throat, and no doubt looking the very image of his father when all the pieces of a case came together in his head, and he was just about ready to dazzle everyone with his marvelous intellect and rapidly explained deductions.

  
"Is that right? Well, neither does Ms. Violet Watson-Holmes," he smirked and nodded toward Moriarty's chest, and the man followed his eye line to where the red dot had moved to hover brightly atop the white kerchief peeking out from his suit jacket pocket over his heart. "And hey, given the fact that you've threatened each life of her family specifically, she'll be definitely more than a little ruthless."

  
"Ruthless?" Moriarty chuckled harshly, eyes still on the dot, "You infants don't know the meaning of the word." He looked up then, the suddenly volume of his voice causing them the jump as he called to Violet across the street, "Put the gun down, girl! Or with optimal viewing from your perch, first say goodbye to little sister, and then watch brother go, then daddy and daddy." He reached out blindly behind him and grabbed hold of Sunny by the arm, she let out a scream as he hauled her to stand in front of him, his grip tight, and the gun settled heavily against her temple. John lurched forward, his cuffs clanking as he shouted curses at Moriarty to let her go. She put a struggle, calling for both her father and daddy, little blue nails biting into the wrist of her captor, but proving to be a useless effort. Sherlock let out a pained whimper when he didn't see but only heard the gun thud against Sunny's head, and her sharp cut off cry, the injury and threat of more pain to come enough to keep her compliant in Moriarty's hold.

  
Klaus glanced between Moriarty and then to the window, into the vicarage, he couldn't see Violet, he could just barely make out the red laser light of the gun's sights. "There is no negotiation, girl! All of you are going to die tonight! It only seems fitting! I lost all my family!" Moriarty shouted, shrugging carelessly, "And I suppose you thought it would be a great big rescue, that it would be as simple as an episode of Scooby bloody Doo. But guess what gang, things aren't like the movies! So either you can come down here, face your execution with your family, or you can watch them die from that scope, and then I'll be with you momentarily! Your choice!"

  
The moment of silence that drew after Moriarty's reverberating shouts faded away seemed deafening. Klaus felt like he could hear his blood moving in his veins, not just actually the thundering thud of his pulse, but the blood coursing through his veins in a frantic rush. He looked back to Moriarty, looked down and saw the laser moving away from his heart and raising up, and up, until it was no longer trained on any part of him. The madman's mouth pulled into a pleased grin, "Good girl," he murmured.

  
But then. A sudden small grunt, and an agonizing shout of pain. He saw it happen in a blink. Sunny pulled the switch blade from her dress pocket, switched it open and jammed it into Moriarty's thigh. In his bout of shock and pain, his grip loosened and she slipped away enough for Klaus to grab her and pull her down the steps and swing her around to shield her with his body, prepared for the inevitable retaliation after the blade clattered to the stone floor and the wailing had ceased.

  
One second passed. Two seconds. Three. Four. And then there was the sound of a body collapsing heavily onto the floor. All was quiet, aside from the heavy breaths from Sherlock and John who had called out upon seeing Moriarty tear the blade from his leg and level his gun with their children's bodies. Klaus, with Sunny still in his arms, turned his head carefully to see Moriarty's body a crumbled heap on the steps of the altar. Blood was pooling heavily from the back of his head - streaming down the ancient stones, collecting between crevices and cracks - though the exit wound came through his forehead. How...? Sunny squirmed in his hold, looking around to see Moriarty was dead, and squirmed even more when she looked beyond the body to see John and Sherlock still very much alive, and very, very shocked and relieved.

  
Klaus let her go after finally registering her struggles, and watched her grab up the bloodied knife from the floor, side stepping around the body as if it were just a piece of obstructing rubble and rushed to John first. Behind him she worked with shaking hands to cut away the rope, "It's alright. It's okay now, darling," John murmured encouragingly. The rope gave way but there was still the matter of the cuffs. Klaus looked back to the vicarage across the way and no longer saw the faint red light. He stood, and walked over to Sunny and John, he pulled a pin from her hair and made quick work of the first cuff round John's wrist. The knife clattered to the floor again when John's hands were free, Sunny cried then, hugging her arms around John and burying her face into his neck, big wet tears washing away some blood. John held her tightly to him, shushing her and telling her again that it was all right now. Klaus gathered the knife and cut Sherlock loose and picked his cuffs, waiting until Sherlock had gathered his legs beneath him, but still found he needed to lean against the stone table, before hooking his arms around his father's neck, squeezing tighter only when he felt Sherlock reciprocate the gesture eagerly.

  
Still in the middle of the night, it was dark in the church and none had seen Violet enter from the back of the nave until she was coming down the aisle with the strap of the long rifle hanging from her shoulder. Her hands were gripping at the strap in a curious way, like she was nervous; in the dark it was difficult to see her eyes trained on the corpse on the floor, the man she had shot and killed.

  
"Violet," John called gently through swollen cheeks and cut lips.

  
The eldest child gasped quietly, audibly swallowing back tears as she sharply raised her eyes to her family, looking at each of them, landing on John last, "Dad, I..." she whispered, voice broken, "I'm sorry."

  
"Violet," he said again, nearly in warning, but with all the warmth in preparedness to console her.

  
"He had all of you, and I just -," her words rushed as she stepped around the body and up the steps, "I know - I know men like that are true to their word, Klaus and I read the files, all the stories, and I couldn't risk - I couldn't - I - I'm sorry. Daddy, please forgive me," she broke down into small gasping whimpers, but she wasn't crying, she just seemed to be in a bit of a panic.

  
John glanced at the youngest in his arms and she gave a small nod before unhooking her arms from round his neck. He stood on shaky legs, using the stone altar table for support, he offered one arm out and Violet rushed to him. She was explaining through heaving, wheezing breaths about how she remembered the first thing he told when he agreed she could train with guns, that she need only promise him that should the occasion prove dire and present itself to her she would never shoot to kill. He didn't want that blood on her hands, in her thoughts for the rest of her life. That's what seemed to have really shaken her, in combination with nearly losing all her family, breaking a promise she'd made so long ago.

  
"Violet. You're alright, you're okay, you're gonna be fine. Just fine." Both his and Sherlock's presence were an all around comfort, along with John's hand soothing back and forth along her shoulders, she was quickly brought down from her panic.

  
"You always said there are special few people anyone would shoot a man for," she murmured into John's shoulder.

  
"That's very true," he answered, and slid his hand resting on the table to touch to the tips of his fingers to Sherlock's, "Calling up that bravery and strength in time of need, and then following through is always difficult."

  
"But I don't... feel bad," Violet said, raising her head to look at John, then to Sherlock when he spoke.

  
"And you shouldn't. He was a bad man. And I suggest we reenact the disposal of this gun in a similar fashion to our first case together, John. That gun dismantles into four parts and we've got quite a bit of bay to spread them out in before Lestrade arrives."

  
"Better call Mycroft as well," John added.

  
Both Sherlock and Klaus scoffed in distaste, and Violet snickered, mopping away her tears with the back of her hand. Sunny cleared her throat, and produced Sherlock's mobile from her pocket, the screen was bright with a five minute call with Mycroft's mobile, still connected, "I, uh, already did."

  
"Aw, good move!" Violet praised the girl while beginning to disassemble the rifle.

  
Sherlock knelt to be eye level with his youngest daughter, and brushed his fingers through her light locks, a frown took his lips and pinch between his brow when he saw the bruise already darkening against her temple, as well as the long finger marks on her arm, "Darling girl. Just as bright as your name, and just as brave a solider as your daddy." She grinned and threw her small arms around him, hooking her legs around his waist when he brought an arm beneath her legs and hauled her with him as he stood upright.

  
"Oh! Erm..." Violet hummed as she passed a piece of the sniper rifle to Klaus, glancing between him and their parents, "I'm not so good with knots. Though Mr. Moran is unconscious from blood loss from a slow oozing wound on his left knee and a blow to the head I wouldn't risk leaving him in restraints of questionable reliability."

  
"We'll take care of that, those cuffs can still be of use. John you'll need to see to his wound," Sherlock stated, glancing briefly to John before setting Sunny back onto her feet. "Wait outside and we'll walk around the bay, dispose of the gun, then go back to the house and wait for all the King's men to clean this up and deliver us home. And if you're still listening, Mycroft," Sherlock directed loudly into the phone, "Bring some food, we're positively famished after such an exciting case as this." He plucked the phone from Sunny's hand and hit the end button, pocketing his mobile and smirking at his chuckling children.

 

They exited the church, Violet passed John back his Sig, and they waited together, each with pieces of a sniper rifle in their hands, while John and Sherlock went to check on the state of Mr. Moran.

  
"This was you. Of course this was you," John scoffed with a laugh, shaking his head as he and Sherlock navigated the dark, empty vicarage, finding the former henchman to the Moriarty's still quite unconscious, and indeed, bleeding slowly from his knee.

  
"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock asked, because many a time before and since their marriage that vague accusation has left John's lips, and he was aware of more than a few things that were his doing that he would likely and justly be scolded for.

  
"You're the reason they're here," John murmured, the chuckle still in his voice as he looked out from the window to see their three kids. One, nearly 15, who had deciphered the code in Sherlock's note, distracted a world renowned criminal with reverse psychological babble, and acted as a human shield for his sister. One, just freshly turned six years old, who was incredibly resourceful with the objects and tasks given to her, had keen eyes for seeking out clues, and shouted and stabbed a man who threatened her family. And, the eldest, closer to 17 than her brother was to 15, who led them there by knowledge of memory, organised her soldiers, and made and executed the calls that would best secure their survival. Where else would they be, if not exactly where they were needed? "You left a trail for them to follow."

  
"Well, of course I did," it was Sherlock's turn to scoff as he rearranged and tightened the knots around Moran's wrists and ankles, and tied those ropes together as well, ensuring there was no way, if he roused, that he should escape, then clicked the metal bracelets around his wrists, one could never be too careful, "Who else would have been clever and brilliant enough to save us if not our own children?"

 

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is officially finished. Though I sorta really suck at endings, it is, in fact, finished!  
> The main adventure referenced from Sir Arthur's works is The Devil's Foot, also borrowed references from BBC's Sherlock seasons 1 & 2.  
> There might be an epilogue, though... if anyone's interested in that. I'm hoping all of this makes sense, because I've been having a bit of trouble reading lately, so, if anyone notices anything off in this chapter and would care to point it out - and hopefully if anything is pointed out it's not just my terrible writing, hah!  
> So! Yeah! Big, warm thanks to everyone who gave kudos, commented, and followed along! It really means so much to me! Thank you!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue... sort of.

* * *

 

Anthea was a heavier presence than usual beside Violet as they journeyed from Baker Street to the Diogenes Club; the final destination being Mycroft's office, a place she wasn't a stranger to, but the reason for the visit much different than previous occurrences. She gladly accepted an offer of tea while she waited, positive she'd heard a murmur of something like _Sherlock's daughter, indeed_ , when she grabbed at the entire box of biscuits while she let her tea cool, but didn't raise a question to it. Mycroft had arrived when she was a quarter of the way through the first sleeve of biscuits; she simply narrowed her eyes when he plucked two from the stack in her hands as he moved around his desk, proceeding to pour himself some tea before taking his seat, all without even a word of greeting spoken.

  
For a time the only sound was the crunch of biscuits and sipping of tea as the two stared each other down from across the desk. Violet felt half tempted to smack something off the desk like a bored, dejected cat, but she withheld the urge.

  
"The report of Moriarty's death offers a similar read to that of his brother's from nearly twenty years ago. Known to be unstable, in a fit of madness he turned a gun onto himself and pulled the trigger," Mycroft finally said after what had felt like, to Violet, a full hour of him sucking a bit of biscuit from between his molars, her knuckles were white clutching the chair arm, and her fingers tips ached with the pressure of seething rage barely contained. Mycroft leaned forward, fingers laced together resting on the desktop, "But we know that's not quite true. The entire scene compared to the report screams of false facts."

  
"Nothing like a friendly nudge from a government gun to keep stories well aligned," Violet muttered, picking a frame from the desk and flipping it around to find the Holmes family posed before the old house, she recognized all of them easily, Sherlock and Mycroft locking in Grandad and Gran, all with a matching sort of grave expression, save for Grandad who always had a secret smirk at the corner of his mouth, a warmness in his eyes that she identified more and more often within her father's. Her lips twitched at the sight of it. "I believe I already thanked you for not putting me on trial for the frankly tidy disposal of a madman in desperate need of disposing."

  
"A ricochet bullet," Mycroft said once the frame was replaced, seemingly ignoring her previous comments. "How on Earth did you manage such a trick shot?"

  
"Adrenaline fueled rough calculation," she answered with a bored sigh, "Eighty percent skill, twenty luck." She clicked her tongue against her cheek and winked while reaching for the other frame, that had three separate windows.

  
Mycroft grimaced, "Hm. I see your arrogance supersedes your father's."

  
"Well earned," she nodded, a smirk unashamedly taking over her mouth. The frame in her hands had three photos, the first she recognized from the mantel piece at home, John and Sherlock and a small bundle cradled between them - Violet's first Christmas, the same setting as the previous framed photo. The next was of Sunny and Mycroft, Sunny's first birthday; a chubby limbed Sunny sat in Mycroft's lap, and a kitten version of Lady Mary was climbing up Mycroft's arm to sniff curiously at the babe. While Sunny's astounded eyes were trained on the kitten, Mycroft had turned his gaze to her, the photo captured the rare joyous gleam in his eye, a true, pleased grin without malicious intent behind it, for once. Sunny was Mycroft's favourite, there was no question about it. And last was of Klaus and Violet, Violet closer to her third birthday and Klaus not far from his first, both nestled comfortably in John's armchair, with a Dr. Seuss book spread open before them. Though she wanted to say he was in dire need of updating his desk photos, she was secretly pleased that they'd melted a portion of the ice away from around their Uncle's notoriously cold heart. From stories she'd heard, they - Mycroft, Sherlock, John - had all been much, much different men before they - Klaus, Sunny and herself - came along.

  
When she looked up she could see a look of contemplation on Mycroft's face, likely weighing the pros and cons of whatever it was going on in his head, there was trepidation in his eyes, but then something final and sure settled over his entire expression before he leaned forward a bit further, and forced a pleasant smile.

  
"Now, let's be serious for a moment, Violet. I'm about to offer you a job."

  
Hang on. Violet's smirk fell, eyes rounded as she sat up in her seat, putting the frame back while she leaned in. She hadn't been expecting this. Well, she had been expecting this meeting, in Cornwall Mycroft had dropped a hand on her shoulder and muttered quietly that they would need to speak soon, but this was not the direction she had assumed it would go. "I'm listening..."

.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy! And they all live happily ever after!  
> Mycroft eventually steps down from his throne and crowns Violet the new British Government. Klaus becomes a surgeon. And Sunny grows up to be the best detective in New Scotland Yard EVER, they actually SOLVE like ALL of their cases.  
> Agent Watson. Doctor Holmes. Detective Inspector Watson-Holmes.  
> There's lots of sass, and cases, and Violet marries a woman named Jo Norton (where she met at the University of Edinburgh Medical School, because Mycroft's stipulation with his job offer was that she must attend a university of his choosing, and she agreed to these terms as long as the university of his choosing suited her. She chose Edinburgh, half in spite of Mycroft, and half because that's where Sherlock attended [in spite of Mycroft]), who happens to be the daughter of Godfreya and Irene Norton (nee Adler). Klaus is on and off again with Katherine Lestrade, and Sherlock will relentlessly insist on calling them the Hooper Family because Molly Lestrade sounds so... weird, he'd much prefer it if Greg just changed his name to Hooper, then all would be forgiven. And Sunny will have only the company of animals, for a while, her home like some sort of rescue haven, not in the least lonely, but then she'll meet a man whose father was an old, old friend of Sherlock's, she'll shake his hand and say, "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Trevor."
> 
> Oh, my god. It's happily ever after, and everything and everyone is connected and everyone's successful and proud and wonderful, just wonderful. Basically I really wanted/needed to explain how Moriarty died, since it was incredibly vague. I've got pages more of painfully domestic bliss, but I figured this little portion was enough. 
> 
> This is the END end! Thank GOD.


End file.
